Our Man in Camelot (16 page)

What was strange, almost disturbing, was the comfort he now derived from his virtuous condition. In his late-night debates with Doc Hollister on the essential nature of the Service mind, and in particular the devious mind of General Ellsworth, they had always ended by agreeing that it was high in crap and low in credibility; or as Doc McCaslin put it, ‘Man cannot live by jargon alone.’ Yet here he was, on assignment at last, instinctively playing it by the General’s book.

Self-analytically, he decided that it was his involvement with Shirley that was to blame. Or, to be fair, it was the personnel controller who had united Agent Sheldon with Agent Morgan in simulated wedlock in the belief that nothing was liable to develop between them except maybe a little casual sex, which wouldn’t inhibit their efficiency.

That would have been the calculation, and it could hardly have been wider of the mark: Agent Morgan—and that probably wasn’t even her real name, he thought with a curious twinge of sadness—had kept her legs tightly together, and Agent Sheldon had graduated through thwarted desire to romantic and protective daydreams… Which were ridiculous —he’d even been comforted this early morning by the knowledge that she’d be safe enough in the joint company of Audley and Sir Thomas.

Or perhaps not so ridiculous, because danger there must sooner or later be, that was for sure. Not yet, this tranquil English summer’s day, and not here, on the quiet lane to the church. But sooner or later the safe gathering of information among civilised men would end and they would catch up with the killers of Major Davies and Airman Pennebaker, who weren’t playing scholarly games… Which cold bit of logic must sharpen his wits now, because Information Minimises Risk.

Ellsworth again, for God’s sake.

He would have to do something about ditching Shirley. But since Shirley was unaware of his feelings that might not be so easy…

Either the village had once been a lot bigger or the old Englishmen who had lived there had reckoned on impressing the Almighty with their enthusiasm, because the Church of St Swithun and All Angels was out of proportion with the rest of the place: it was on the way to being a miniature cathedral.

The element of surprise was increased by its seclusion; it was so completely surrounded by tall elms that it was only possible to get glimpses of it—even from the road on the ridge above the village only the pinnacles had been visible through the trees—and because he hadn’t realised the steepness of the valley and the height of the elms Mosby had been expecting a much smaller building.

And yet, surprisingly again, it was neither overshadowed nor overawed by its trees, but stood in the midst of a sunlit churchyard full of ancient tombstones which sprouted from the well-cut grass.

That first impression of loving-care was confirmed by a notice pinned on the board beside the gateway: “This Churchyard received a Special Commendation in the Churchyard Section of the 1974 Best Kept Village Competition. Visitors are asked not to disturb the south-east corner, which has been left in its natural state for the purpose of ecological study.”

Mosby pushed the wooden gate gingerly, fearing to disturb the false ecological tranquillity of a scene under cover of which millions of insects and small creatures were doubtless busily eating and being eaten. The hinges had been well-oiled, however—as one would expect of a Specially Commended churchyard—and it was not until the latch clicked shut again that he startled a group of glossy young blackbirds from their breakfast among the graves. Even then they flew only a few yards, to settle as though by common consent on another favourite feeding ground, full of confidence and greed. No doubt graveyard worms were especially succulent, even though man’s role in the food chain of this older part of the churchyard, where the stones were grey-weathered, had long been exhausted.

The crunch of the gravel under his feet was unnaturally loud, so he forsook the path for the grass, pausing to read those stones which still had legible inscriptions.

William Higgs, Esquire/Born May 21 1672/Died March 17 1743… Benjamin Hunt, Esquire/Born April 3 1690/Died January 6 1757
… a healthy place, this; or maybe only the better-off could afford stones in the prime locations and the poor, dying young, went into unmarked graves…

Geo. Pratley / Departed This Life / February 12 1752 /Aged 72 Years/I know that My Redeemer liveth/And his wife Sarah/March 3 17521 Aged 70 Years
.

A life-long love story there, maybe, with Sarah hastening to follow her George. Or maybe just a hard winter balancing the ecological books.

But it would be nice to think of another stone some day, somewhere:
Mosby S. Sheldon/Departed This Life
—say—
February 12 2025
—that wasn’t too greedy—
And his loving wife/Shirley Aged
—

Nice, but goddamn ridiculous. He didn’t even know her real date of birth any more than he knew her real name.

He still had a full half-hour in hand before Harry Finsterwald arrived, enough time for him to see all the things Margaret Handforth-Jones would expect him to have seen.

But first things first. The church was unlocked and the door of the vestry was open, as Margaret had said it would be, and the Mothers’ Union banner was there waiting for him, neatly furled alongside a crisp white line of choirboys’ surplices and what looked like the vicar’s second-best jacket and emergency dog-collar.

Reassured, he went back into the main part of the church; the banner could wait until after he’d met Finsterwald. It was one thing to beat General Ellsworth with it, at a time and place of his own choosing, but quite another to present Finsterwald with so choice a tit-bit.

Next, the tower—he must be able to enthuse about the ‘super views’, even if the other finer points of church architecture would have to be dismissed on the ‘we’ve-got-nothing-like-that-back-home’ level.

The tower door was concealed behind a heavy curtain and although it was also unlocked it was secured with a massive iron bolt, so stiff and set so high up that it would have discouraged the more adventurous of the local small fry. And the route thereafter was well-calculated to put off most other explorers: at first a steep stair climbed awkwardly in the thickness of the stone wall to another high-bolted door which opened on to a bell-ringing level festooned with ropes which disappeared into holes in a ceiling far above; faded biblical exhortations “O Lord, open Thou our lips” and “Our mouths shall show forth Thy praise”, painted on the walls in large letters, gave place to a curtly printed card “KEEP THIS TRAP SHUT” thumb-tacked on a trapdoor at the head of a rickety wooden staircase. After that there was a level empty except for the continuing bell-ropes and a naked ladder climbing to another trapdoor bearing a similar notice; then, at last, the bells themselves, huge and still in the confined space… one of Ellsworth’s ambassadors, an officer of no known religious persuasion, had become an enthusiastic bell-ringer (and a devotee of warm English beer into the bargain)—he had even tried to infect Mosby with his strange mathematical passion for change ringing, but to no avail… and then another ladder to another trapdoor.

Then blessed sunlight and fresh air, and the cooing of pigeons turning into the flapping of heavy wings as the trap banged open.

Mosby caught his breath and steadied himself on one of the tall stone pinnacles which had looked so delicate from ground level, but which now had comforting stability. It was humiliating to have such a poor head for heights, and especially this particular height, the uneasy treetop zone belonging neither to earth nor heaven, too high for safety and too low for detachment. The slight queasiness in his stomach and the prickle of sweat on his face were the familiar symptoms of the fear he always experienced at the moment of take-off and landing.

The difference was that here they were totally irrational, he told himself angrily: the tower of St Swithun’s Church had stood firm for half a thousand years and was probably good for the next thousand. If there was any place where he could get to grips with his weakness it was here.

Looking down was worst, so he would look down first—

In the stillness of the churchyard the movement at the gate caught his eye instantly. And even if there had been no movement the bright blue and yellow of Harry Finsterwald’s check shirt would have shouted at him.

He cursed under his breath and looked at his watch. Just when he’d found the guts to experiment with his fear the stupid jerk had to jump the gun by a full twenty-five minutes, breaking the rule (which admittedly he had also broken, but with better reason) that rendezvous times should be kept exactly unless—

Unless.

The sudden thought shrank Mosby into the cover of the pinnacle. Then, very slowly, he raised his head into the right angle where the stone upright joined the parapet and peeked down again.

The confirmation of his fear was immediate. Finsterwald hadn’t walked boldly up to the church porch, as he ought to have done, but had slipped to his right behind the cover of one of the trees which flanked the gate. And now he was reaching under his shirt for something in his right hip-pocket.

Mosby stared down incredulously, hypnotised both by the unfolding scene below and by the thought of the sequence of events which must have produced it.

Finsterwald had been tailed off the base, but hadn’t spotted his tail and had believed until too late that he was in the clear.

Which wasn’t altogether reassuring, because if Harry Finsterwald was no intellectual giant the mechanical things like spotting and shaking inconvenient tails would be right up his alley. Which in turn meant a whole lot of even less reassuring things, like for a start that the tail was smarter than Finsterwald—and also that Finsterwald would be goddamn mad at having been outsmarted at his own game.

Mosby’s pulse quickened. There was only one thing Harry could do, having screwed things up so beautifully, to unscrew them, which was to take out the tail before the tail could report back. That was what he was now preparing to do, and he, Mosby, had a grandstand seat for the performance. And there was nothing he could do about it except pray that Harry had the sense and skill to take the man alive.

Except, of course, it could be just Harry’s imagination. Or merely Harry’s prudent double-check against the remote possibility that someone had played it cleverer than he had. Lord, let it be pure imagination or prudence.

Trouble was that the Lord must know, since Mosby already knew, that Harry Finsterwald was short on imagination and long on arrogance. So—Lord, let him not foul it up right here in front of me. Just let him do it right.

For a minute nothing moved below him. The churchyard was as still as a churchyard ought to be. Even the blackbirds seemed to have decamped. Above the shielding trees he could hear the hum of the traffic away on the main road three-quarters of a mile away on the ridge, but down there it would be dead quiet, giving Harry the edge.

The minute lengthened. A pigeon—presumably the one he had disturbed—flapped heavily out of one of the elms towards the tower, saw Mosby crouching against the pinnacle, and banked off steeply to head away over the valley, following the meandering stream.

Hope flickered within Mosby. It was going to be all right after all. Or maybe it wasn’t all right; maybe he ought to wish that there had been a tail on Harry Finsterwald, someone they could catch and interrogate. Someone who could give them any sort of lead more solid and believable than the incomprehensible one he’d been following these last few days.

Then both conflicting hopes were extinguished in a brief glimpse of movement between the tree trunks outside the churchyard wall to his right. For the next two or three yards an inconvenient branch obscured the view, then he caught the movement again. Someone was moving warily—too warily for anyone on his lawful occasion—along the line of trees towards the gate.

Where Harry was ideally placed to take him. Mosby felt a pang of sympathy for the tail, remembering how he’d flunked three tests of this game hopelessly in training. On an unsuspecting, untrained, innocent subject it was easy, but no one had yet found a practical reason for following unsuspecting, untrained innocents, and against a properly trained pro with a bad conscience it was damn near impossible.

He remembered his instructor shaking his head at him phlegmatically, a squint-eyed, honey-faced ex-cop who’d done it all and seen it all.

“
You gotta tail you don
’
t make till too late, you gotta be blind. You do the thing right, and you make him—he does the thing right, you still make him. Just ain
’
t no way he can get the edge on you except
—“

Holy damn! The memory of the next words punched Mosby’s panic button sickeningly. Forty minutes’ drive from the base, it could hardly be less, and Harry still hadn’t spotted his follower until too late to try anything except this. But no matter he was a fool, there was nothing wrong with his eyesight.

“
Just ain
’
t no way he can get the edge on you less he
’
s got a partner doubling with him
—“

A partner?

Now he couldn’t even see the first man, let alone a second one. Just Harry waiting to jump—and be jumped.

Because that was what was going to happen, sure as fate. If the sole object was to watch Harry to see what he was doing and who he was contacting they wouldn’t make the first move. But the moment they realised he was on to them—and, Christ, maybe they already suspected it—it would be the Davies-Pennebaker treatment.

He felt the seconds draining away, and seconds were all he had to figure the angles.

Too few seconds, too many angles.

He could shout a warning—nothing easier. Maybe scare the bastards off; they sure as hell wouldn’t know the nearest thing he had to a weapon was a Mothers’ Union banner down in the vestry—

But maybe they wouldn’t scare that easy—

And maybe throw Harry’s attention the wrong way at the wrong moment—